


The Silver Wolf

by ChandraAAbsentia



Series: The Silver Wolf [1]
Category: Original Work, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coming of Age, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Multiple chapters, Original Character(s), School for Hunters, Supernatural Elements, Werewolves, bildungsroman, this is going to be a very long story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 20:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12992235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChandraAAbsentia/pseuds/ChandraAAbsentia
Summary: Isaac Lahey left Beacon Hills with a mission: destroy the Nogitsune. When the mission is over, what will become of his life?





	The Silver Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter in a series about Isaac's life after Beacon Hills. The plan is to have it coincide with the timeline of Teen Wolf. I'd like to update every week or two, but I suffer from the twin vices of procrastination and perfectionism so we'll have to see how this goes.

The lights were strobing in the darkened room their path giving births to vibrant hues of blues and oranges and greens. The music was loud, his heartbeat louder. He followed the soft whisper of her sent through the crowd. She was easy to track, if not by scent then by aura: graceful and confident, tender and strong, a rose with her thorns awaiting unsuspecting fingers. She glanced at him, a challenge in her eyes. The shirt tossed over her head in a swirl of movement. The bra underneath was aglow, drawing his eyes to the soft curve of her breasts.

“What would you rather do?” she asked, “Talk about Scott, or paint my body?”

“I want to paint your body,” he said. He grabbed the brush from her outstretched fingers. The wood felt like a strand of spaghetti in his hand, too slippery and thin. He managed to dip the brush into the paint and hold it like a loaded weapon above her flesh. Where to begin? What to paint on a canvas too perfect for a million paintings? He watched a single bead of sweat trickle down her chest. With a feather light brushstroke he pushed it away. He had begun his masterpiece. So effortless was the creating that the brush seemed to move itself. Around the curve of her jaw just below her ear went a thin green line. Across her chest went spackles in a plethora of colors. She didn’t seem to notice the art project blossoming to life on her skin. Instead her eyes were scanning his face as if to make a perfect copy of his features in her mind.

He felt a cold fist of air on the back of his head, something dark and heavy. But he was too busy to pay it any mind. He had work to do and it desperately needed to be done. Red coated the tip of his brush. He brought it down onto her skin in a large scarlet circle, blotting out some of his previous work in the process. The paint was not content to stay in place. It dripped thick tracks down the front of her bra, onto her stomach, crashed onto the floor. He realized his mistake now. He tried to wipe it away, but the paint only spread becoming thicker and wetter. It smelled metallic and rotten and with every new inch it overpowered the sweetness of her scent. He started to whimper. It was so futile. His hands were caked with the paint, with the blood, but still the flow would not be staunched. She put her finger to the blood and smeared it down his lips like a secret.

“Hush now, baby,” she said, “It’s alright. I’m already dead.”


End file.
